


Quicksilver in the Sun

by Andrasta14



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 18th Century homosexuality, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because the ending will damn well be happy even if I have to diverge from canon, Blackmail, Canon Compliant, Character Study/Exploration, Class Issues, Imprisonment, M/M, Methodism, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Conflict, Starts with LJG series and continues into main series, Step-Sibling Incest, That is actually requited except John is an idiot, Underage Prostitution, Unrequited Love, one-sided John/Jamie, tags are the bane of my ao3 existence must i, technically speaking but they're grown ass men when they meet so it barely counts, well more or less
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrasta14/pseuds/Andrasta14
Summary: It was rather symbolic, Percy thought, that the only visible token of a greater affection John had given him had been their initials drawn coupled together within a heart on his condensation-fogged window – an ephemeral gesture designed to disappear as though it had never been...(A.k.a.: The product of my having read The Brotherhood of the Blade far too many times: the story from Percy Wainwright's pov (that no one asked for and no one will likely read, but hey) that I simply couldn't bear not to write any longer.)
Relationships: Lord John Grey/Percy Wainwright, Percy Wainwright/Others
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

** Prologue **

_“I was born in a thunderstorm_

_I grew up overnight_

_I played alone_

_I played on my own_

_But I survived_

_I wanted everything I never had_

_Like the love that comes with light_

_I wore envy and I hated that_

_But I survived.”_

_\- I’m Alive_ , Daughtry

Perseverance may have been an admirable virtue, but at times he’d wondered if being named after it wasn’t more of a curse than a blessing. A curse, it felt, when his life was far too akin to one of those books that made him want to hurl it against a wall, or burn it to ash and be done with it, because the events therein were so devastating he couldn’t bear to read another word.

But then there was perseverance, that stubborn force that would compel him every time to grit his teeth and pick the goddamned book back up and dust it off. It was that coalescence of grim determination and foolishly persistent hope that made him keep turning the pages, made him keep putting one foot in front of the other. Because he refused to believe he was reading a tragedy, even if in his heart he suspected he was.

If only life were a book and he could turn to the last page to see if all the pain would be worth it in the end, but it wasn’t. There were no shortcuts in life – just death, but he’d never been the giving up sort – and there was no cure for life but to live, and hope, and persevere.


	2. Part One: London Chapter One: Lavender House

**Part One: London, Sacred yet Profane**

**Chapter One: Lavender House**

_London, June 1757_

There was nothing, he’d found, quite like an excess of godliness to turn one to godlessness.

Not that he was godless, exactly, even if he sometimes wished he was. It is less that he had forsaken God than he feared that God had forsaken _him_ , and not without reason.

Still, no one could ever say Perseverance Wainwright didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. He found he could take an accurate measure of the righteousness of any thought, word, or deed of his simply by dint of how violently he imagined said action would make his father turn in his grave. And if he occasionally took a strange pleasure in the knowledge of just how furious the ever sanctimonious Reverend Wainwright would have been with him, well, he’d just add it to the list of other secrets he kept.

His current location – striding down the curving lane of Barbican Street on the way to a glorified molly-house – would’ve had his father positively foaming at the mouth.

He’d chosen a suit of middling quality for the excursion, decent enough to be respectable and still moderately fashionable and yet subdued enough to hopefully not to invite the attention of footpads. The relentless ghost of his father’s disapproving mental indictment of his clothing – _wasteful, ostentatious, immodest, vain_ – he determinately ignored. The imagined censure of his exposed curling dark hair – _indecent_ – he could acknowledge was at least somewhat true as he hadn’t troubled himself to either wear a wig or at least brush it smooth and bind and powder it. Not much point in it, where he was going.

And it had to be said that even Percy somewhat questioned the wisdom of his intended destination. He’d learned to be leery of such places over the years and avoided them most of the time. He hadn’t always been so discriminate though.

He’d been reckless in the wake of his mother’s death, seeking distraction and oblivion wherever he could find it, anything that could give him relief from the darkness that permeated his mind and heart. Most of his encounters in the molly-walks of London had been fairly pleasant but for a few decidedly unpleasant episodes. Being yanked off a night-darkened pathway near Blackfriars Bridge and dragged into the bushes at nineteen by some hulking brute of a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer had been terrifying enough to ensure that he’d never returned to the place again, even though his knee had blessedly met it’s target and he’d been able to wriggle out from beneath his would-be assailant while he’d grasped his groin, groaning and cursing, and had fled back towards the nearest crowd before anything worse had happened.

It hadn’t been enough to keep him away from such places forever though, young, headstrong and halfway self-destructive in his grief as he’d been.

Waking up two years later in the early hours of the morning in one of the bog-houses of Lincoln’s Inn, curled up naked and alone in a corner, to discover everything but his underclothing had been stolen certainly hadn’t been his most shining moment. The utter mortification of having to walk home shivering at five in the morning, barefoot and wearing nothing but his drawers and a threadbare undershirt while receiving incredulous and scandalized looks from every working class citizen unfortunate enough to be starting their work day at such an ungodly hour had been bad enough. The visible bruising on his wrists and, unseen but keenly felt, bruises on his hips and upper thighs had only made matters worse.

It wasn’t until the next morning, once his head had stopped pounded and his shaking hands had mostly stilled, that he had trusted himself to take up his razor to shave. It was then, in the small square of his shaving mirror, that he’d caught sight of the reason for his aching throat. The sight of dark finger-shaped marks standing out in sharp relief against the pale skin of his neck had sent a chill through him. He’d started shaking again and ever since had not set foot in such a place from that day to this.

“The _bog-houses_ at _Lincoln’s Inn?”_ Percy’s oddly particular friend of sorts as well as patron, Mr Featherstone, had exclaimed, aghast, at the later retelling of this story a week later in reluctant explanation for still fading bruises. “Whatever were you doing _there?_ That’s no place for someone like you, dear boy.”

Percy had given a rueful half-smile and shrug. “I normally never go there but I had been out drinking with a friend that evening and, well...it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Nothing could have induced him to admit that he in fact had little memory of how he’d come to sustain his injuries, the world having gone hazy for him shortly after taking a few gulps from a proffered flask. He’d taken it as an acute lesson on the dangers of accepting drinks from strange men.

Then had come Featherstone’s suggestion that should he find himself desiring companionship in the future he’d be more likely to find a suitably congenial person at Lavender House.

“It is an exclusive club for gentlemen,” Featherstone had explained. “You’ll not find the rough sort that frequent other establishments there. Or at the very least, they’ll ask your permission first.”

Percy, rarely going long without offer of male companionship in any case, had listened politely and made a mental note of the address of Lavender House but hadn’t in the intervening years felt any strong desire to visit the place and so hadn’t. As to his currently intended sojourn, he’d call it more of a spontaneous whim born out of boredom than a decision. Well, boredom and a lingering sense of curiosity. And a not small measure of sexual frustration if he was honest.

This last prevailing consideration Percy could lay squarely at the feet of one Ober-Lieutenant Michael Weber.

He’d met the tall blond German officer in late April, standing amidst the crowd watching the parade in his full dress uniform. Percy, who’d been weaving his way through the gathered throng with only a passive interest in the parade – living in walking distance of the parade grounds he saw them often enough – had been stopped dead by the novel sight of the foreign and amusingly ostentatious uniform made complete with an absurdly plumed helmet waving like a flag in the wind. As if feeling the weight Percy’s eyes on him, Michael’s deep blue gaze had shifted and suddenly locked on his in the distance, making his heart leap. A dazzling smile had split the officer’s strikingly handsome face and then he’d been in motion. The crowd had parted readily in response to Michael’s purposefully confident stride and the next thing Percy had known the young man had been standing before him, offering his hand warmly in introduction and receiving Percy’s name and agreement to join him at the nearest coffeehouse in turn. After that, they’d been off to the races.

The affair had lasted the better part of a month. Michael had turned up on Percy’s doorstep without fail nearly every evening but for those when his duties kept him away – Michael having been sent to London as part of a support staff to his superior officer who was in negotiations with the War Office – or Percy himself had had to leave town to visit Featherstone. As Michael was little acquainted with London, Percy, as a native Londoner, had naturally offered to show him around the city. Going out for supper and attending whichever plays or concerts that happened to be performing became commonplace along with Michael’s stubborn insistence on paying for everything – the state of Percy’s near insolvency being painfully evident to anyone once they’d seen where he lived, though Michael was polite enough not to comment on it. Though Percy had been faintly embarrassed by Michael’s refusal to let him contribute in any way, he hadn’t felt too badly about it as the young man very clearly had no concerns in regard to money as the scion of a Prussian noble family. Michael’s attempts to find out more about Percy’s background had been short-lived; there was nothing quite like being orphaned to make people tiptoe around inquiries of one’s past, which suited Percy just fine.

He’d been content to enjoy the young man’s company in the moment but had been careful from the start not to allow himself to become too attached, knowing that Michael would be returning to Prussia any day and that their dalliance would be at an end. They’d parted amiably when the day came, Michael embracing him and giving him one last kiss of surprising intensity. He’d released Percy with an air of reluctance and, surprising him again, handed him a paper upon which he’d neatly written the address of his family’s estate, inviting him to write to him and telling him to let him know if Percy ever visited Prussia so he could show Percy his home in return.

Over a fortnight had passed since then and Percy was still somewhat ambivalent about whether he ought to write or not. One part of him thought it would be largely pointless since he would likely never see Michael again and nothing could come of prolonging their association. The other part of him thought, why not? He wasn’t in love with Michael but he had liked him a good deal and he had treated Percy very well. And he was bloody gorgeous – Percy certainly wouldn’t mind seeing him again at some point. What harm in writing once in a while? It would be rude not to. He just needed to take care what he put in writing.

It certainly wouldn’t do to write about just how unprepared he’d been for the voraciousness of Michael’s sexual appetite and how, bereft now of his attentions for the last two and a half weeks, he’d been growing progressively more and more restless and frustrated to the point that he had surrendered at last to the impulse of seeking out an establishment like Lavender House. Against his better judgment, to be sure, but one could not always live in fear.

The house, when he reached its neatly tended walkway, was little distinguishable from the other large houses that fanned out in a crescent around the small private park. It stood, quietly elegant among its neighbours, and only a pair of lavender-filled marble tubs that flanked the door marked it out. It struck him as somewhat odd to see such a respectable looking little neighbourhood so close to the slum area of the Barbican, but considering its true purpose he supposed its location was not so surprising after all. Appearances were so often designed to be deceiving.

Taking a fortifying breath, Percy reached out and tugged on the bell.

The door was opened shortly by a liveried butler whose gaze passed indifferently over his modest suit before reached his face. He thought he detected the barest flicker of interest as the man took in his features, though only because Percy was long experienced in recognizing that particular subtle shifting of expression rather than due to any lack of training on his part.

His deep voice was politely neutral as he addressed Percy. “May I help you, sir?”

“Good evening,” Percy greeted, offering a nervously affable smile. “A...friend of mine recommended your establishment to me. Am I in the right place?”

“Perhaps,” the butler replied evenly. “May I ask your friend’s name, sir?”

He lowered his voice, having been cautioned not to reveal his patron’s name to anyone at Lavender House save its butler or proprietor. “Featherstone. Tobias Featherstone.”

Recognition was visible in the man’s eyes as he took a step back and opened the door further. “Welcome, sir. I am Mr Seppings. Please let me know if you should require anything.”

Percy murmured a thank you as he crossed the threshold a bit uncertainly and stood studying the stately and tastefully decorated foyer. No one would have guessed its true purpose from the look of the place, it looked like any other fine home of its sort. His gaze passed over a series of paintings on the wall, lingering appreciatively for a minute on a skillfully rendered landscape portrait. The colourful model of man on a table by the door caught his eye and he crossed over to it, bending his head to study the elaborately enameled and gilded figure with interest.

“Have you seen how it works?” came a low murmur, warm breath suddenly tickling the hollow beneath his ear.

Percy jolted upright, face warm and heart racing. A golden-haired young man stood beside him, far too close, shoulder brushing his, and smirked impishly up at him.

“Sorry, dear,” the man said, plump rosy lips pulling up in a way that seemed decidedly unapologetic but pleasingly sensual nonetheless. “Did I startle you?”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Percy said, composing himself once more as his pulse slowed.

“Thick carpet,” was the blond’s tossed-off response as he stretched out a hand and retrieved a little gold key from behind the enameled man. He turned bright blue eyes – the bluest eyes Percy had ever seen, he thought, positively incandescent – on him, openly appraising him as he absently twirled the key between slender fingers. “And what, may I ask, is your name, beautiful?”

Percy smiled, warmth touching his cheeks as he extended his hand politely to the young man. “Percy. Your servant, sir.”

The blond grasped his hand firmly, the skin of his palm warm and dry against his own, his eyes alight as if with some mischievous thought. “Yours, sir. Call me Neil.”

_An underwhelming name for someone so comely,_ Percy thought as he took in Neil’s disheveled golden curls, undone stock and swollen mouth. Clearly he’d already been engaged in some activity this evening.

Percy made to withdraw his hand but Neil held on to it for a moment, stroking a thumb over the back of his hand, the heat in those hot blue eyes making his belly tighten in unspoken reply, before relinquishing his hold.

_Well, he’s certainly a possibility,_ Percy decided. Physically, Neil was certainly his type and he seemed like he would be a... _fun_ one-time encounter at the very least. Still Percy wasn’t in the habit of going off with multiple partners on the same night, and unpleasant experience had taught him not to simply go off with any attractive stranger that wanted him without at least taking some time to observe him further.

_And who knows who else might be here? There could be someone more interesting._

“First time here?” Neil was asking as he inserted the golden key into the enameled man’s back and began to turn it.

“Is it that obvious?” Percy asked with a self-deprecating chuckle as he watched the figure – a clockwork man he realized now from the sound of the figure being wound – with renewed interest.

“Not especially,” Neil said lightly, pausing to glance at him from beneath his lashes over his shoulder, “but if I had seen you before, _believe me_ , I would remember.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Come here often then?”

Neil’s mouth curled, the tip of his tongue gliding swiftly over his lower lip. “Oh, as often as I can.”

The clockwork man suddenly trembled to life, dropping his metal breeches and bending over to bare its round metal buttocks. Percy’s mouth dropped open at the vulgar display – he wondered sometimes just how long it would take before he ceased entirely to be shocked at the crassness of the larger world when viewed though the lens of his sheltered Methodist upbringing – and Neil chortled at the look on his face. Then Percy laughed, too, shaking his head in amusement.

“Had I any lingering doubt I was in the right place it has now been put to rest.”

“Are you sure?” Neil asked playfully, his fingertips brushing the back of Percy’s hand. “Because if you still found yourself in doubt I would be happy to escort you upstairs and see it firmly dispelled.”

Percy’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps a drink first? I presume there is somewhere we might sit for a bit...”

Loath to waste money on a coach so early in the evening when the fare would be better spent taking him home at nighttime when it was far more dangerous to be on foot by himself, he’d walked from his boarding house on Audley Street. Well accustomed to walking most places, the hour’s journey would normally have been nothing to him. Would’ve been quite pleasant really – the summer sun was out and it wasn’t raining for once – but for the holes he’d worn in the soles of his shoes yet _again_. On its surface the shoes were slightly worn but well polished and quietly elegant in style, but on the underside...

He swore the state of his shoes were symbolic of his very being.

He’d been ignoring the increasing discomfort since springtime, determined to get as much use out of them as he could, but now his feet were griping louder at him in pain and his ankles and lower back were beginning to join in the chorus. He would have to have the soles replaced as soon as possible, there was nothing for it. It would be costly but not nearly as much as having a new pair made. If Mr Featherstone didn’t send for him for a long visit sometime soon, though, he was going to be engaging in some non-religious fasting for a while.

“Oh, the library,” the young man supplied with a theatrical little sigh, turning on his heel and gesturing for Percy to follow him down the left hallway off the foyer. “There’s no one of any real interest there – you and I are the cream of the crop this evening I’m afraid – but I’m sure they’ll be pleased to meet _you_ , my dear.”

And they _were_ pleased, the pair of gentlemen in attendance stopping dead in their conversation to rise from their seats and surround him in enthusiastic welcome seemingly within moments of his crossing the library threshold.

“Well, well,” drawled one auburn-haired young man, looking him up and down with undisguised admiration. “It looks like it will be a _good evening_ after all.” He stepped into Percy’s space, the alcohol-scented warmth of his breath wafting against his face as he added, “Call me Jasper, sweetheart, and consider me your most humble servant.”

Percy chuckled, leaning back slightly. “Consider me yours, sir, and call me Percy.”

“My dear Percy...” Jasper purred, moving forward to reclaim the little room Percy had managed to make between them, and then gave a startled little grunt as Neil’s elbow jabbed him in the side.

“Easy there, lover boy,” Neil said glibly. “I saw him first.”

Jasper pouted, his cute freckled face turning petulant. “You cannot simply lay claim to every pretty boy who sets foot in here just because you saw him first, Neil.”

Percy lowered his eyes, smiling faintly.

“I am fairly certain it’s in the club by-laws,” Neil retorted, mock-serious. “Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

An arm snaked around Percy’s shoulders as he watched the two young men quibble, amused and bemused by turns, and he turned his head to find an attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed man watching him at close range.

“Don’t mind them, darling,” he murmured in Percy’s ear, deftly employing the arm that encompassed Percy to steer him away from the bickering duo. “Should you elect not to go with either of them, they’ll go off with each other before long, never fear. Please, have a seat.”

The man – perhaps a few years older than himself at most – gestured toward a few comfortably worn leather armchairs arranged around a low-burning fire with a graceful, dusky complexioned hand. Percy sank gratefully into one of the plush chairs, resisting the urge to groan in relief at not having to stand in his shoes for a bit. The man sat across from him, sable curls spilling loosely over his shoulders, and was introducing himself as Gideon just as Percy started to find his lap suddenly filled with the golden-haired Neil, the electric blue eyes studying him with almost unnerving attention.

“So, are you a _Mary_ or a _Mary Magdalene?”_

Percy blinked, then the corner of his mouth turned up as he met the questing gaze. “Well, I’m no Mary.”

Neil’s head tilted, considering, and said at last, “No...just a Mary in disguise, I think.”

Percy’s heart thudded hard against his chest and he had to look away a moment. Neil’s lithe figure radiated heat as he sat shamelessly plastered against him and Percy’s fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his breeches with the momentary urge to push him off his lap. He’d never met Neil before, he was sure of it. He’d have remembered him if he’d seen him somewhere before. He couldn’t know...

His chair shifted slightly as Jasper perched on its broad arm and reached out to ruffle Percy’s hair. “Don’t be pest, Neil. Can you not see you’re making the sweet boy uncomfortable? Here, let me help you relax, sweetheart – isn’t it too warm in here?”

It _was_ too warm – perhaps it was his proximity to the fire or more likely to Neil – so Percy didn’t prevent Jasper from untying his stock and unwinding it until his throat lay bare.

“It is a bit warm,” Percy agreed lightly, feeling the hair on the back on his neck prickle as Jasper undid the top enclosure of his shirt as well and smoothed his fingertips over the newly exposed skin.

“You’ll feel better in a bit,” Neil murmured coaxingly, shifting in his lap in a most distracting manner to access his waistcoat buttons. “No need to stand on ceremony here, my dear, we’re all friends. May as well make yourself more comfortable.”

Neil glanced swiftly at Jasper, an impish smirk twisting his pretty mouth and finding its match in the other young man. From the chair across from them, Percy found Gideon’s rapturous dark eyes watching, a folded newspaper forgotten in his lap. His lips curled lasciviously as he met Percy’s gaze and a hot weight kindled in the pit of his stomach in response.

_Jesus Christ._

_We’re all friends here, indeed._

This was why Percy didn’t frequent molly-houses anymore. It was far too easy to get drawn into things he found himself regretting later.

He was just debating what to say to politely extricate himself from his present situation – preferably before Neil’s hands made their way to his breeches – when the door to the library opened and another man walked in and stopped dead at the sight of the three of them on the chair, brow furrowed.

“Have you two no manners?” the man remarked, his voice low and silky and exceedingly dry. “At least offer the boy a drink before you molest him in a common room.”

Percy flushed, feeling oddly like he’d been caught at some mischief-making by his schoolmaster. The man padded nonchalantly across the room to the side board and selected one of the crystal decanters, pouring himself a drink.

“Unless, of course, he means to interview for membership,” Gideon quipped blithely, a sly smirk playing at his lips. “But then we’ve hardly a quorum assembled tonight for a proper vote.”

Percy’s brows knit together a moment and then he gently prised Neil’s questing hands from his half open waistcoat. No one was _interviewing_ him for anything for sake of the viewing pleasure of a coterie of strange, libidinous men.

“I think it might be a bit soon to make such a momentous decision, don’t you?” Percy said half-jokingly, shifting his weight to stand so that Neil was forced to vacate his lap. “Please excuse me, gentlemen.”

He crossed to the other end of the room, heart still beating faster than he liked, and peered out through the velvet curtains to the darkened and empty street beyond. He inhaled and released the breath slowly, willing himself to calm. He wasn’t sure why he felt so flustered – perhaps it had simply been too long since he’d done this and he was out of practice.

He’d promised himself when he chose to come to Lavender House that it would be a one-time visit. And given his past experience with the dubious sexual politics and mind games that often went on in places like this, one visit would be more than enough. It certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing if he ended up leaving without choosing a companion for the evening, he reminded himself. It wasn’t as though he was likely to meet the love of his life at a place like Lavender House, after all.

Feeling more composed after a minute or so, he turned and glanced curiously at the nearest bookcase, wondering just how much of an accord the library’s collection had with the nature of the establishment to which it belonged. Running his fingertips lightly along the spines of the books, he trailed along slowly, quickly growing absorbed with reading the titles. As such, it took him a bit to sense he was being watched.

He turned his head, surreptitiously searching out the source of the feeling, and inhaled sharply. The man who had just come in still lingered by the side board, leaning casually against the wall beside it, long, slender fingers curling about the drink in his hand, and was regarding Percy with a passively interested air. Percy smiled politely in acknowledgement and returned his attention to the books, taking one down from the shelf and willing himself not to check to see if the gentleman was still looking.

The man was quite handsome – Percy had noticed it when first he’d walked in – if not beautiful, like Michael Weber. Not young either – but not old – well into his thirties, maybe even a decade Percy’s senior. Neatly groomed dark blond hair, light coloured eyes – he hadn’t seen them close enough to tell the precise shade – tall and trim-figured. Good, classical bone structure. Well dressed in clothing of good quality and refined fashion.

Still, if he wanted Percy’s attention he would have to come to him – because he may have been a bit out of practice but not _that_ much.

The soft sound of a throat being cleared came from behind him scarcely a minute later and Percy smiled, turning expectantly to find the man standing a few feet away.

“Good evening,” the man greeted, inclining his head slightly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

_Oh, yes, and that voice. Low and silky with just that right hint of masculine roughness beneath._

Percy had always had a particular weakness for a lovely voice. And this man had the loveliest voice in the room, cultured without being obnoxiously aristocratic.

“Percy,” he replied, extending his hand. “Your servant, sir.”

“Elias,” the man returned, quickly shifting his glass to his other hand to take Percy’s. “Yours, sir.”

Elias’ palm was cool to the touch and smooth against his – the hand of a gentleman, much like Percy’s own. He gave Percy’s hand a firm shake and then released it immediately, in much the way one would introduce oneself to a stranger on the street rather than court a potential lover in a molly-house.

Percy darted a glance at him but could read nothing more than cordiality in his expression and polite interest in his eyes – eyes he could now see were as green as peridots. Very pretty.

“I cannot help but notice you seem to be the most sober man in the room,” Elias stated wryly. “Apart from myself, of course. Might I be permitted to assist you in remedying that state?”

Percy’s brows rose in amusement. “You’re asking permission to get me drunk? How considerate.”

_Perhaps the only gentleman I’ve met thus far in this so-called gentleman’s establishment._

“I aim to please,” Elias returned, a small twitch of a smile unfurling as he crossed to the side board with Percy in tow. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Brandy, please.”

A house like this must surely have had excellent brandy – unlike the swill by that name they had the temerity to serve at the taverns nearest him – and he would’ve been remiss not to have any. Also, he thought he could get away with nursing a brandy for a good while, which was ideal given that he had no idea what manner of over inflated prices he might be charged for drinks in this place and there was no way in hell he was about to ask anyone. He’d only ever needed to have a wealthy gentleman look down his bony aristocratic nose at him once in his younger years to never forget that if one _needed_ to ask the cost of a thing in an establishment, then they didn’t belong there.

He was still nervously awaiting the bill that the butler would no doubt discreetly present him with before he left. An establishment like this didn’t stay open without charging people at every available opportunity – he just hoped that this wasn’t the type of place that charged an entry fee on top on anything else their clients may choose to partake in, as he meant to do as little partaking as he could manage without drawing attention to himself.

He watched the deep amber liquid purl into a snifter as Elias selected a decanter from the many vessels clustered upon the side board with an air of casual familiarity, pouring a few fingers worth, the glint of a gold band on his left hand catching Percy’s eye as he did so.

_I suppose it would be looked upon as stranger for a man of his age to still be a bachelor than for him to be married._

Far be it for Percy to judge a man for trying to find a bit of fulfillment in a society that forbade men of their sort the ability to live an authentic life, though he did feel badly for the wives in the situation. It was an ever-present dread he tried to keep pushed to the back of his own mind – that if he wasn’t able to find a way to improve his circumstances in life by his own means, he might at some point in the future have to surrender to that last of last resorts: marrying a rich woman to better his position in society, or even simply as a means of deflecting suspicion of his true nature.

The mere thought of having to live a life that was even more of a lie than it already was filled him with trepidation.

“Thank you,” Percy murmured as Elias passed him the drink. He took a sip, holding it on his tongue to savour the taste. “This is very good. What kind of -”

“ _There_ you are!” exclaimed an accusing male voice, and he and Elias turned to regard the young man that had just arrived and fairly stomped over to where Neil had carelessly slung himself over one of the chairs.

Elias snorted under his breath at the sight of the disheveled brown-haired man and replied to Percy’s inquiring glance, “Owen, Neil’s periodic inamorato.”

“ _What? Really?”_ he blurted before he could stop himself, eyeing the young man speculatively as he leaned over Neil with an irritable expression, lips moving inaudibly. Owen’s face was decent enough, if on the round side, and he, like Neil, was no more than average height, though Owen’s stocky build made him look shorter than he was.

_Too plump for my tastes. Looks like a younger version of Henry..._

Percy’s stomach turned at that and he roughly shoved the unwelcome thought away, taking a gulp of his brandy.

“Or at least he fancies himself as such,” Elias continued wryly, just loudly enough for Percy to hear. “Neil, on the other hand, is as constant in his affections as an alley cat, even as Owen has an unfortunately jealous disposition – so as you might imagine, their relations tend to be a bit turbulent at times.”

“Hmm,” Percy hummed thoughtfully, still observing subjects under discussion. “The fellow certainly looks cross. Don’t tell me Neil left him sleeping up stairs and then came down here to, ah, explore further opportunities.” He gave a short laugh. “I suppose it’s a good thing that it was you that arrived when you did and not him if he is indeed the jealous sort.”

Elias smirked. “Yes, that was probably a good thing. By the way, ought I to offer my apologies for interrupting what may have been an enjoyable experience?”

Percy felt his cheeks grow warm. “...I think not. That is, I’m sure I’d have regretted the business had it progressed much further – you know, with an unsatisfyingly _insufficient quorum_ present to witness the act, and presuming, of course, that the membership application process is in the vein I suspect it to be.” He paused to look directly at other man, arching an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Elias’ expression turned grave but his eyes glinted with humour. “I’m afraid it’s forbidden to reveal our interview criteria to anyone outside of an official applicant.”

_“Our?”_ he echoed emphatically and then grinned, taking another a sip of his drink. “So you are yourself a member then?”

“Perhaps,” Elias replied languidly, suddenly straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall and gesturing towards the seated men with his glass. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

“If you like,” Percy said easily, following the man to a pair of vacant seats beside an adjacent window flanking a chess set on a small table. He set his drink to the side and plucked the queen from board, admiring the exquisitely carved wooden figure, before meeting Elias’ gaze with a teasing smile. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know. Consider it, if you will, a postponement rather than an evasion.”

“As you like, sir.”

“Fancy a game?”

Percy glanced down at the board dubiously but replied with a self-deprecating twist of his mouth, “I suppose. I am afraid I’m not very good – I haven’t played in years.”

Chess had been one of the very few games he’d been permitted to play at home growing up – anything that gave off even a whiff of an association with the evils of gambling being outlawed by his father on pain of additional bible lessons, chores, and confinement to home – and playing it with his father, who’d never once let him win, had felt more akin to a punishment than pleasure. It had, he was well aware, left a residual distaste by association that had little to do with the game itself.

Elias studied him silently a moment before saying, “There are cards, if you prefer, or we needn’t play at anything at all -”

Just then, a slender figure appeared in the doorway and all conversation in the room was arrested.

Curious, Percy turned to peer over his shoulder at the newest caller who had so captured the attention of the other men. The young man’s suit – made of rough homespun fabric, ill-fitting and drearily-coloured to boot – didn’t bear mentioning; in fact, the clothing ought to be burned, promptly, if only in the name of good taste. The man himself, though, did not match his outfit. Quite the opposite. His hair fell in soft blond waves over his shoulders and framed delicately wrought features.

“Gentlemen,” the newcomer greeted, offering a shallow bow to the small group. “Your servant.”

A brief jolt ran through Percy at the young man’s accent – surprise that he saw echoed in the expressions of the other men – at that very distinctive brand of elocution that belonged to the upper classes, speech as clear and sharp as cut crystal.

_Loftily aristocratic, rather than obnoxious,_ he appraised.

A grossly impoverished gentleman, Percy mused, or some young lord who’d borrowed his servant’s clothing to more easily navigate London’s seedier underbelly? The latter, he thought; no poor gentleman could carry himself as this one did unless he held himself in particularly great esteem.

As though to confirm his observation, the blond gentleman strode right over to the sideboard like he owned the place and, picking up a nearby decanter, poured himself a drink and took a sip without preamble. Percy’s brows drew together slightly at the show of poor manners. The men continued to stare in wary, interested bewilderment and the gentleman turned to face them, boldly returning the stare, utterly unapologetic.

Percy had to glance down briefly, pressing his lips together to suppress a smile.

Elias, to his credit, regained his composure almost at once and, setting aside his drink, stood to greet him.

“Welcome...sir,” he said with a note of caution.

Jasper smiled, carelessly tossing his paper aside. “And what’s your name, sweet boy?”

“That is my own affair...sir,” the man replied evenly, sipping his drink with an insouciance that belied the razor’s edge of his smile.

The rest of them rose to their feet at this, and after a moment’s hesitation, Percy followed suit but hung back a bit, observing. Being a stranger to both the establishment and its regulars he felt somewhat removed from the strained atmosphere. The others converged about the young gentleman but, fortunately, Percy didn’t sense any danger from them – as there might have been in a less reputable setting – merely an air of mingled curiosity and wariness. Oh, and yes, attraction. They were riveted despite themselves.

Neil was eyeing the man with such unfettered want that Owen – poor possessive little bastard – shouldered into him none too gently, trying to break the spell that held him. Neil absently placed a placating hand on his playmate’s leg put didn’t take his eyes off the object of his current absorption.

If this intense scrutiny in any way discomfited him, the gentleman didn’t show it. The set of his mouth – a soft and sweetly shaped mouth, Percy couldn’t help but note – was resolute and his gaze was unflinching. There were the beginnings of tension in the line of his shoulders though – and the body was never half so adept a liar as the mind or heart.

Percy advanced determinately at that, neatly sidestepping the others to reach the young man, wanting both to diffuse the strange energy that had arisen in the room before it could turn unpleasant and introduce himself as well. The gentleman’s fair hair gleamed in the candlelight to resplendent effect as Percy stepped forward and the pale gaze shifted to his face.

“Well, if you will not give your name, let me make you a present of mine,” Percy said, smiling down at him – for he was good deal slighter in stature than him – and took his hand in his. “Percy Wainwright – at your service, ma’am,” he added jokingly, unable to resist the urge to bend and press a kiss to the elegant appendage – thankfully he thought, or hoped rather, that he’d managed to make a graceful show of it and hadn’t simply mashed his mouth against the man’s knuckles like a clod – and felt the barest twitch of the long, slender fingers as his lips made their brief contact.

Percy straightened once more and the man’s hand was utterly still in his, giving neither encouragement nor slight. His eyes met Percy’s and Percy’s heart gave an unexpected leap. Large, wintry blue eyes fringed by long, golden lashes.

_Beautiful,_ Percy thought, momentarily awestruck.

The gentleman’s gaze was aloof, but not quite cold; there was a glimmer of amusement there lending some small measure of warmth. Percy felt a twinge of disappointment when the man withdrew his unresponsive hand after a mere moment, but found his interest piqued by his standoffishness rather than deterred. He’d always been drawn in by a good mystery.

“Your servant...madam,” the young man replied glibly, making Percy and the others chuckle, though the edge of guardedness in the latter was merely blunted.

Neil came forward then, standing near enough that his arm brushed Percy’s.

“What brings you here, my dear?” he asked the gentleman, the intensity of his interest still all too evident in the heat of his eyes.

“Looking for a lady,” the man drawled, leaning against the sideboard in a show of ease. “In a green velvet gown.”

There was a short bit of uneven laughter at this from a few of the men. The gentleman’s gaze darted sharp and swift from one man’s face to the other, eyes narrowed. Percy’s gut gave a lurch of recognition – he knew a man on a mission when he saw one. The young man wasn’t here in search of pleasure. He wondered what the lady – or gentleman – in the green gown had done to warrant the pursuit.

Whatever it was, Percy could only presume that time was of the essence in finding them, or else why would the gentleman go about his investigation in such a blunt manner? He, himself, would’ve taken his time, blended in and put the group at their ease – starting with a false name if he hadn’t wanted his real one known – before working his way organically towards what he wanted to know. The men would’ve been far more easily read, and more readily obliging, after they were loose and relaxed from a few hours of drinking and diverting conversation. Instead, the gentleman had put them on their guard from the moment he’d walked in – not that they wouldn’t still have been on edge, if for an entirely different reason. Even the ugliest of clothing would’ve been hard pressed to disguise the young man’s natural beauty.

“Green doesn’t suit me,” Neil said, letting the tip of his tongue slide over his upper lip in so unsubtle a manner that Percy had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “But I’ve a _charming_ blue satin with laced pinners that I’m _sure_ you’d like.”

The gentleman’s expression remained unaltered despite the flirtation, and Percy found himself vaguely comforted that he showed at least as much disinterest in Neil as in himself. Owen, on the other hand, standing adjacent to them, bristled and glared at both Neil and the gentleman with open hostility.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he sneered. “You cunt, Neil.”

_Oh, bother this,_ Percy thought, suddenly recalled to another aspect of frequenting molly-houses he hadn’t cared for. It had been a few years since he’d gotten caught in the crossfire of a cat fight and it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

Neil, fortunately, only frowned a bit at the slur – Percy suspected he probably got called a cunt a lot, he seemed the type.

“Language, ladies, language,” Percy chided, mock-primly, as he edged Neil back with a practiced elbow and smiled amiably at the gentleman. “This lady in green – have you a name for her?”

“Josephine, I believe,” the young man replied carefully, eyes darting once more from man to man in search of a betraying expression. “Josephine, from Cornwall.”

A chorus of mocking “Oooh”s rose from the men and Gideon launched into an off-key rendition of “My Little Black Ewe”. The gentleman took this in his stride, waiting out the farcical interlude with silent resolution.

The library door opened then, blessedly terminating the poorly sung tune, and Percy’s head turned along with the others to regard the older man crossing the threshold. Percy couldn’t keep himself from grimacing slightly at the physically wasted frame, even baggily clad as it was by an expensive suit of striped blue silk and a fashionable bag-wig.

_He looks wholly diseased, liable to drop dead any minute,_ Percy thought uneasily, skin crawling. _The eyes are the liveliest thing about him._

The small, sunken eyes swept purposefully over the gathering – halting only momentarily on Percy’s face in the acute manner of someone spotting an unfamiliar person in an unexpected place and committing them to memory – before locking on the blond gentleman at its centre. The black eyes glittered with avid interest but the man’s gaunt face was pleasantly bland as he spoke, thin, shriveled lips shaping politely voiced words.

“Seppings said that you wished to speak with me,” he said with a slight nod, standing aside and raising a bony brown wrist to gesture to the door. “If you would care to join me?...”

The gentleman stepped past them without so much as a parting glance and Jasper gave a low, teasing whistle as the young man left the room with the older man.

“Now, _that’s_ a Mary!” Neil proclaimed, pointing to the vacant doorway, as the men hooted with laughter. “Maybe old Dickie will have better luck loosening him up.”

A few rude snickers came at that.

_You couldn’t pay me enough to sleep with that walking cadaver,_ Percy thought, unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion.

“Cold?” Elias murmured, raising a brow inquisitively as he claimed a seat by the fireplace.

“Oh, no, no,” he said, pulling a half-comic face as he sunk into the plush leather armchair across from the man. “My mind just made an unfortunate foray into a disturbing visual place.”

“Yes, disturbing indeed.” The man smiled and cast a knowing glance towards the door. “Hopefully the fellow can learn what he’s after without having to pay _that_ particular price though.”

“I suppose that depends on how desperate he is to find his lady in green, or erm, gentleman I should think more likely given our present circumstance,” Percy said lightly.

“Yes, I suppose,” Elias agreed, expression placid – perhaps a little too placid. “Provided, of course, that Mother Caswell has information to be exchanged in the first place.”

Gideon snorted derisively over his newspaper, but Percy doubted it was in response to anything he’d read as Elias cut a sharp look at the other man. Gideon’s dark eyes met the man’s a moment before turning down wordlessly to the article before him.

_They know,_ Percy realized, feeling it instinctively. _Still, if they’re all keeping mum about it, there must be a good reason._ And he hadn’t survived this long by sticking his nose in things that were none of his business – even if his natural curiosity had admittedly been known to get him in trouble from time to time.

“So Mother Caswell,” Percy inferred, having been to too many molly-houses to ask why the man was called ‘mother’ - though it certainly didn’t prevent his mind from conjuring an image of the ancient prune in a nun’s habit, an ornamental phallus hung about his neck in lieu of a cross, “is the fount of wisdom around here?”

Elias smirked faintly, a distractingly arousing expression on his handsome face. “You could say that.”

So the gentleman had come to Lavender House specifically to speak to this Caswell. He _was_ still one of their sort, though, Percy thought. He hadn’t been at all perturbed by the bold advances from house’s patrons; indeed he’d behaved like a man who was accustomed to such attention – and with a face like his it was easy to see why – and had in fact encouraged it by wearing his hair as he had. The hair had been a calculated attempt to blend in, though he certainly hadn’t visited the house with the usual intent in mind as evidenced by his behaviour. And none of the others seemed to recognize him despite his seeming familiarity with the place – which didn’t necessarily mean anything without knowing how often the others frequented the place.

Reclaiming his snifter of brandy from where it still sat next to the chess set, Percy returned to idly perusing the bookshelves, sipping at his drink and pulling out the odd book for further inspection while glancing at the ornate mantel clock at intervals.

“If you’re waiting in hopes of having another go at yon fair-haired beauty, you’ll be waiting a long time,” Gideon told him with unconcealed mirth after a short time. “Once Dickie has sunk his talons in someone they don’t liberate themselves from his lair lightly,” he added with a chuckle, as Percy’s hand stilled mid-air in its quest for a vaguely familiar French novel on a higher shelf.

“I am not waiting for anyone,” Percy insisted lightly, consoling himself with the knowledge that he was only half-lying. He took the book down – yes, it was the one he remembered liking some years ago – and returned to his chair, opening it. “I have an early morning and cannot leave too late else I won’t be able to find a coach to take me home and I live some distance away.”

His stepfather, Sir George Stanley, had sent a note a few days ago asking him to join him for breakfast before he left for work in the morning, and the last thing Percy wanted to risk was turning up on the general’s doorstep looking like a wastrel in last night’s rumpled evening suit because he’d stayed out all night and hadn’t had time to go home and change first. The disapproving look he’d earned the time he’d inadvertently ended up doing that very thing had made him take care never to repeat it.

“Surely you didn’t come here just to spend the evening reading, sweetheart,” Jasper interjected from where he was pouring himself another drink at the sideboard.

Percy kept his eyes lowered to the page, replying with a faintly teasing lilt to his voice, “Perhaps I did. It depends on the book.”

“But you haven’t been here before, I think,” Jasper continued, coming to over to sit next to Gideon, glass cradled in his hand. “None of us have seen you before and you’re not the sort that’s easily forgotten. No one comes to Lavender House to _read_ on their first visit.”

Percy gave an ambivalent shrug. “I just thought I’d come and have a look.”

“A look?” Elias echoed, amusement flickering across his face. “What, like a man of discerning tastes who attends a banquet only to see if there’s anything worth eating? And who, perhaps, is entirely prepared to leave unsatisfied if he doesn’t see anything that whets his appetite?”

Percy laughed. “It seems my measure has been taken, sir.”

“Then the real question, my dear,” Elias began smoothly, as calm as if he was asking whether or not Percy wanted to borrow his umbrella, “is whether you’ll be leaving or whether you’ll be coming upstairs with me.”

The heads of the other men in the room turned to them at this and Percy felt the weight of expectation as well as their stares. Across the room, Neil the Cunt smirked at him and raised a brow as if in challenge. Percy had been acquainted with his share of pretty boys over the years and, while fun in the short term, they tended to have little enough substance to hold his attention for long. And he’d learned it was better to put himself in the hands of a man rather than a boy.

This was what he’d come for, wasn't it? Even if he couldn’t thoroughly shake the feeling that by going, he would be leaving with the wrong man.

If only the blond gentleman had shown some sign of interest, he’d have waited a while longer – Caswell’s talons notwithstanding – but regretfully, he hadn’t, and Percy’s time was growing short. He did like the other man – Elias would do well enough he was sure.

“I cannot stay long,” he warned with an apologetic half-smile.

“I should consider any amount of time a gift,” Elias replied, warmth stealing into his words as he rose gracefully to his feet and extended a hand down to him, palm up. He took it and let the man pull him up, leaving his book abandoned behind him.

A series of salaciously drawn out whistles and comments sounded from the others - “Let me know if you want a little more company, boys!” Neil called after them – as they left the library, and Percy blushed despite himself, knowing then that he definitely had no intention of returning to Lavender House again.

He followed Elias, who paused to take a taper from a small table near the base of the stairs in the foyer and touch it to another candlestick to light it before continuing up stairs. The floor above was simply furnished and unmistakable male sounds emerged from some of the many rooms as they passed through the hallway and up another flight of stairs. The furnishings on the topmost floor were considerably more luxurious – a large oriental rug ran the length of the gallery, pictures decorated the walls, and vases of fresh flowers sat on small tables – and the doors were spaced further apart denoting larger rooms.

Elias produced a key to one of the suites, explaining as he unlocked the door that he rented it out whenever he was in London on business. He stepped aside to let Percy proceed him and then closed and locked the door again behind them. Relieved to be able to free his feet from their uncomfortable confines for a bit, he surreptitiously toed his shoes out of sight under the bed before turning to his companion.

“You know, for a while there I wasn’t sure you were interested in me,” Percy admitted, smiling.

Elias smiled back and shrugged a touch sheepishly. “Beautiful people are accustomed to being fawned over – I thought I stood a better chance of gaining your attention by eschewing said fawning, at least until the right moment.”

He laughed. “Oh, is that so? Well, in that case, just to be clear... _that moment is now._ ”

When Percy emerged from the bedroom a while later – physically satiated and neatly attired afresh – and descended the stairs to the foyer, he could not prevent his gaze from wandering in search of the mysterious gentleman from earlier. He was nowhere to be seen, however, so Percy set forth into the night once more, alone.

~*~  
  



End file.
